This is the truth.

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And this is the truth:
I wake up everyday,
and I do not
think
of God,
or the aching in my stomach,
or the beautiful creature
sitting next to my bed
whining for me
to let her out
onto the
dewy grass.
No.
I wake up every morning
and think,
“Will he still love me
today?”
I’ll sink my head
back into my pillow,
refusing to get up
and greet the sun.
Because
the only certainty I have
now
is that when the evening comes,
I will
still be loving
him.
That?
That is
terrifying.


We break it.

We break love when we try to touch it.

You learn a lot about love when you lose it, when you break it. 
I learned that we’ll beg God or the universe or whatever we believe in that makes us feel like we have a purpose to just let us start over.
And when we do get to start over, we realize all too late that starting over isn’t quite what we wanted.
We didn’t want the cracks and sharp edges to disappear, we wanted them to make us a certain type of beautiful; we wanted them to make the hugs tighter, the kisses longer, and the goodbyes harder.

Instead, starting over means pretending.
It means you go back to the, “Wait, are you in this for the long hall, or am I the only one who’s gone all in at this game table?”
Because I learned how quickly you can go from, “Hey, you’re on my team, my lucky charm; here, blow on my dice,” to sitting alone at a table with colorful chips that are supposed to be worth something.
But you don’t want to start over. All you really want is to be able to cash in your winnings.


For the past two months, I’ve sworn that I would buy cheap plates from Walmart just so that I could go out into the silence somewhere to hear their tiny, shattered pieces let out loud echoes that validate the loneliness we so easily feel.

Maybe part of me wanted to feel the control pulse through my hands and into my fingers that slid off the plates as I threw them only when I was ready to throw them; to hear the loud clash of breaking glass only to feel the anger and the hurt and the insecurity break with them.
Or maybe I needed to know that, if I so wanted to, I could go over and pick the pieces up just to put them back together;
to see that all of the broken slivers still formed shapes that so perfectly complimented each other so as to make a whole.

Whole. Such a broken word, at times.

I didn’t want to start over and pretend that there weren’t pieces of us left over.

I wanted to take the broken pieces and make us whole, even in spite of ourselves.


 

Foster joy yourself,  joy that’s dissociated from the human beings around you. 

 

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